


Behind Bars

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Prison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prison might actually be easier if Allison could feel any guilt over what she's done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2,920 Days of Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milominderbinder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milominderbinder/gifts).



> All of your faves are queer.

 

Chris refuses to let her go at the gate. He holds onto her tight, arms wrapped around her like a viper squeezing the life out of her and Allison is sure she can feel her rib cage crack, blames that for the tears in her eyes and the way she's sobbing into his shoulder.

She wants to tell him that she's sorry, that she loves him and wishes she hadn't done it, but there's a part of her, a louder and more vicious part, which whispers in her ear that she only regrets getting caught.

It's why she isn't fighting it, why she lets the guards pull her out of her father's warm, familiar embrace and drag her through the metal detector. It's why she just wipes harshly at her eyes and bites down at the cry building in her throat.

She won't cry. Not anymore. Not for this.

The metal door slams shut on her father's voice, cutting off Chris' declaration of love and forgiveness and Allison locks the words up tight inside of her, hopes they're warm enough to last the eight years of her sentence.

She can still hear the judge call it out in the silence of the courtroom, his voice sending her stomach plummeting through the floor.

The guard, a petite woman with ringlet curls and a kind, mothering smile, hands her an orange shirt and pants. The material scratches against the soft skin of her hands and all it does as serve as a reminder for what she is now.

A criminal.

Allison clenches her jaw and undresses, coughs when the woman tells her to despite the iron hot poker of embarrassment stabbing through her, and changes into the bright color from documentaries that she never thought she'd see herself wear.

“Hey,” she says, and Allison spares a quick glance to her name tag, _M. McCall_ , “You just keep your head down, alright sweetie? Your time will fly by. I promise.”

Allison bites her tongue to keep the anger inside of her from lashing out, tries to take the kind words for what they are. This guard, this McCall doesn't understand. McCall gets to go home tonight, gets to call people and use the internet and watch TV whenever she wants to. She gets a break from this.

The next few years of Allison's life will be completely controlled by someone else, and she hates that. For a minute she had felt stronger, had felt powerful, but now all she feels is empty and weak and she hates it.

The woman hands her an ugly gray coat and scratchy bedding before she's shepherded off to the hallway.

There are four other women in the hallway, all wearing the same obnoxious orange outfit as her. They're all quiet, staring at the yellow walls with blank expressions, except for the girl on the end, who's crying into her pillow and whispering to herself in rapid fire Spanish.

A guard is watching over them with a bored expression on his chiseled face, a newspaper with a half finished crossword puzzle resting forgotten in his hands. He sees Allison out of the corner of his eye and gestures for her to line up against the wall with the others.

She rearranges the bedding in her arms, careful not to drop anything, and shuffles over to the wall. The woman, more a young girl than anything, standing next to her eyes her disinterestedly, dark hair needle straight around her face.

There's a stoniness to her sharp, brown eyes, something self confident that grits against Allison's nerve endings. She raises a thick, but well manicured, eyebrow at her and Allison just nods in greeting.

McCall's words rattle around in her brain, reminding her to keep her head down.

She waits impatiently, fidgeting away from the guards gaze, for ten more minutes before a frightened mouse of a girl stumbles through the door. She practically squeaks as she meets their stares.

“That's everyone,” the guard announces, and Allison squints her eyes to read his name tag, _I. Lahey._ He starts walking toward the door, long legs striding briskly, and makes a motion over his shoulder for the line of girls to follow.

They do so slowly, trailing after him like a funeral procession, and in a way, it is. Allison sighs to herself, saying goodbye to her freedom. A cold, numb feeling is at war with a burning fear inside of her, and Allison isn't sure which she's inclined to give into.

The air outside is freezing, reminding her that it's Winter and it'll be Christmas soon. She grimaces at that and ignores the sharp pain in her heart, tries to forget the panic and fear in her father's face when the guards ripped her away from him.

When she closes her eyes, she can still see the horrified look in his eyes when he found her sitting on the floor, hands covered in blood and tears running down her face.

Inside the van is warm and packed, girls all squished together but too afraid to huddle for warmth. Allison is pushed up against the window and the girl with the eyebrows has her elbow digging into her side.

She grits her teeth and bears it, telling herself that it's only a short ride up the hill.

The driver turns around as the back door slams shut, smiling blindingly bright. It's almost enough to distract from her obvious prison attire, a beige suit almost identical to her own.

“Hi!” She waves, ignoring her passengers look of incredulity, “I'm Yukimura, or Kira, if you decide you can't say that. I'm driving because we all get jobs and they trust me, for some reason.”

Lahey, in the passenger seat, scoffs, “We just know you're smart enough to not run away with a van that has government issued tracking devices on it.”

Kira rolls her eyes, offended, “It's like they don't even remember that I'm a criminal. Anyway, after we get up to the prison, I'll be showing you to your holding bunks and then I'll take you to lunch, alright?”

She sounds too happy, almost enough to fool Allison into thinking this is some kind of summer camp. It sets her teeth on edge and her hands form into claws where she's holding her bedding.

Allison tries to breathe and relax, blocks out the sound of Yukimura and Lahey squabbling in the front seat over the radio station. She rests her head against the window and closes her eyes.

\- - -

The holding bunk is a 12x12 room with four bunk beds in it. Allison shares it with six old ladies, two of whom have to be hooked up to breathing machines, and one other girl from the transport van who she learns is Hale.

She doesn't offer a first name and, besides Kira, no one else does either. She starts introducing herself as Argent and leaves off the accent, missing the grace with which her mother would wrap her tongue around the last name. Allison tries very hard to not cry at the reminder and is proud of herself for succeeding.

Hale calls the top bunk, which Allison has no problem with. Kira said they were only staying in the holding bunk for a few days at most until the CO's shuffle everyone around to make room, and until then Padilla, one of the ladies in the room with dyed red hair and a grandmothers smile, says she'll make their bunks for them.

Hale leans against the wall next to her and whispers, “They're not being nice. It's so they don't get in trouble during inspections.”

Allison doesn't know what to say to that.

Watkins, a frail old woman who Allison hasn't seen move an inch from her spot on the top bunk in the entire hour she's been in the room, explains to them the alarm system.

The count alarm, which is shrill and loud, means they have to be back in their room and standing next to their bunk immediately. If they miss count, then they'll get a ticket and maybe be sent to solitary, depending on how the guard who catches them is feeling that day. A nauseous feeling squirms in her gut at that.

The second alarm means lock down, which is more of a blaring fire alarm. It means Allison has to drop to the ground immediately and wait for a CO to come find her.

“Even I haven't heard the last alarm, and I've been in here thirty years,” Watkins says, and Allison blanks, wondering what on Earth the woman did to get locked up for so long, then feels her face flush, knowing she could have gotten forty years at _minimum_ if she hadn't had as good of a lawyer as she did, “But I'm told it means that a prisoner has escaped.”

“What?” Hale asks, cocking her hip out and crossing her arms over her chest, “No one's tried to make a break for it? There's a highway only three miles from the entrance.”

Watkins and Padilla exchange an amused glance. Watkins grunts, “Listen, you little hood rat,” Allison sees Hale practically flare up at that, “Only an idiot would try to run from a _minimum security prison_.”

Padilla nods, “Try that and you'll get a one way ticket to max- fácil. It'll make this place look like Disneyland.”

“And don't think your mommy can protect you from the feds, girl,” Watkins reminds her, voice light with hilarity.

Allison watches the exchange with a raised eyebrow, confusion growing by the second. Hale shakes her head sharply at the look and Allison decides to let it drop.

After Padilla finally deems their beds finished, she hands each of them an extra blanket from a metal cupboard along the wall and tells them to sleep on top of the already made bed. There's sort of a frenzied look in her eye that causes Allison to gently take the blanket without question.

There's another hour until lunch and she spends it counting the cracks in the wall by her bed, fingers twitching to pick at the peeling yellow paint. The gentle hums of the breathing machines tick in unison and Allison focuses on it, tries to breathe despite the panic curling around her lungs.

It's stupid. It's stupid and wrong and horrible of her, but she's bored.

She'd heard, like every other young person in her generation, that they were too reliant on technology, and she knew it. She believed it, sure, but that did nothing to make her put down her smart phone or get off the computer.

There's nothing to do but sit and wait, and the thought of doing nothing but this for the next eight years is maddening. That's 2,920 days of this, of nothing. It's only just starting to settle in, what she's done, what's happened to her, and the pale, yellow walls aren't doing anything to calm her clenching heart.

Allison actually feels grateful when Kira's face swoops around the corner, still grinning from earlier, to collect them for lunch.

She explains that the older ladies get the choice of eating in their rooms or not, whispers that it's more work than any of the CO's want to wheel or drag them to the cafeteria, and Hale snorts at her side.

Allison follows blindly as Kira leads them along the hallways, trying to find any rhyme or reason to the rat maze. She's comforted by the confused looks Hale is trading with her. At least she's not alone in _this_.

Kira stops at two more rooms to pick up the rest of the girls from the van, and Allison's happy to see the one from earlier has stopped crying. Her eyes are completely dry; if Allison hadn't been there to see it, she wouldn't have even known about the small breakdown.

None of the other girls bring it up, thankfully.

The noise level starts to pick up the closer they get to the cafeteria, with Kira pointing out rooms here and there.

“You'll get used to the layout soon,” Kira assures over her shoulder. She pauses just outside the entrance, and Allison can pick up laughter and taunting, the sound of plastic hitting tables and food being eaten. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend she's back in high school. It's not exactly comforting. “I'm not going to lie to you, it's gonna be scary in there. Girls are all going to be sizing you up, trying to figure out if you're right for their group. Just stick with the first friendly face you see and trust your gut, alright?”

The advice isn't the best she's ever received, but Allison clings to it like a lifeline.

If possible, it's even louder beyond the door. It picks up slowly as they all trail in, interested murmurs filling in the void where laughter was only seconds ago. Allison twitches nervously, fiddles with her fingers to avoid looking out into the sea of strangers. Hale is the opposite, standing on her tip toes and scowling over heads.

“My mom and sister are here,” Hale turns to whisper, excitement betraying her, and it all sort of clicks into place for Allison at that.

“Do they know you're here?” Allison asks, watching as Hale's face turns into a frown.

She shrugs distractedly, “Derek should have told them,” before going back to her search.

Allison doesn't bother asking who Derek is. Hale hasn't been exactly forthcoming with information in the entire two hours that she's known her.

The line moves along slowly, giving Allison time to consider if she's even hungry. She hasn't eaten since last night, too nervous to even pretend to poke at the breakfast her father made for her, but her nerves are shot and the idea of eating anything makes her stomach feel like it's crawling up her throat.

There's a harsh poke to her back and Allison twists her head, only to see a girl from the van this morning, one with dirty blonde hair wildly strewn around her face and deep brown eyes. There's a badge pinned to her orange shirt that says _Reyes_ , and Allison briefly wonders when she'll get her own name tag.

She looks at Allison's face and sighs, “At least pretend to eat, idiota.”

Allison clears her throat and gently corrects, “Argent.” She ignores the snort from Reyes and moves along in the line.

“Idiota means idiot,” the girl clarifies, laughter still bubbling out of her mouth, “Shit, Argent, did you not take Spanish in high school?”

Allison bites her lip, cheeks flushing, and admits, “Um, I took French instead. The Spanish class was full.”

She turns her head just in time to catch Reyes' smile widen, teeth sharp and bright as she grins wickedly at her, “Oh yeah? Language of _love_ , huh?” she asks, “Say something in french then. Come on!”

Allison's face twists and she quickly mumbles, “Je suce à français.”

Her accent is terrible and it makes her cringe but, if anything, Reyes laughs louder, and Allison doesn't fight the grin that follows.

She ignores her mother's voice in her ear, whispering in French as easy as if she were breathing, accent perfect and flowing like music. She grips the metal rail separating the lines hard, letting Reyes' laughter wash over her.

Reyes nudges her forward along the line,“Jesus, Argent, I'm totally swooning over here.”

Allison rolls her eyes, Reyes' gentle teasing calming her nerves. When she reaches for a plastic tray, her hands aren't shaking, and she counts it as a plus.

The girls behind the counter don't even look at her as they load the tray, busy talking amongst themselves too low for Allison to understand. They're mechanical as they sling food around, muscle memory doing their bidding for them.

Allison grabs a carton of milk and takes the tray, filled with a nuked slab of meatloaf, a cup of corn, and another cup of sliced carrots, before the panic sets in again.

Erica blindly hands her a pudding cup, vanilla, and Allison doesn't even voice her disgust, suddenly too cold and too warm and too scared and too afraid to even _think_.

She's not supposed to rely on anyone, not in here, not after what she's done, and so she steels her eyes, clenches her jaw, and lifts her chin ever so slightly. She's reminded of her mother, the calm and clear grace in which she could control a room, and with that in her mind, she steps away from the line and walks down the aisle.

There's a table in the middle of the room and she's relieved to see that it's mostly empty. She doesn't even look at anyone else, eyes on the chair and the free spot so intently that she practically weeps when she finally sits down.

Her shoulders are only just starting to relax when a tray slides into her view, filling the empty space in front of her. Allison looks up, throat closed tight, only to see Reyes sitting down.

“I couldn't find anywhere else to sit,” the girl says simply, pulling back the lid of her red jello and licking the foil.

Allison keeps her smile to herself.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Allison, nudging around the slab of meatloaf on her tray, and Erica, enthusiastically eating her jello. It's not nice, but in a way it is. It's nicer than Allison expected, at least, and that's always a good thing.

“I'm Erica,” Reyes says, plopping her spoon into her empty container. It waddles around before finding gravity again and rights itself. “Got picked up on a marijuana charge with intent to sell. You?”

“Allison,” she tells her, crinkling her eyebrows, “Aren't we not supposed to say what we're in for?”

All the documentaries had been pretty clear on that.

Erica waves a hand, annoyed, “Seriously? What is this? Rikers? Come on, I bet you did something stupid to get in here. A pretty girl like you? What, did a friend make you shoplift or something?”

Allison blanks at that, face slipping into something emotionless. She can still feel it, if she tries, the bone aching need, the fire in her blood and the fury in her heart, pumping nothing but hate and hate and hate until she could only see red.

Allison's silence only seems to egg Erica on though, who grins around a spork full of corn. She swallows, coos, “Ooh, it must be pretty big if you're not talking. What, daddy ashamed of you? Cut you off your trust fund?”

“Something like that,” Allison allows easily. She stabs at a carrot with her spork with nothing better to do than to eat. It tastes like cardboard and nothing and she wants to gag on it.

Erica hums, “I'll figure it out eventually. News travels fast around here, you know? Nothing else to do but gossip and plot revenge. My bunk mate, Washington, she's a chatty Kathy.” She reaches over and takes Allison's pudding cup without even asking, rips open the lip and licks it just as she had with the jello, “And- I've always gotten the feeling that I'm kinda psychic.”

“Psychotic, more like it,” a voice scoffs, just before a tray is set down next to Erica. Allison looks up only to see Hale, frowning down at her tray like a kicked puppy.

Erica smiles, carefully showing her teeth, “Okay, whatever, says the drug lords _daughter_.”

Hale flicks a piece of corn in retaliation, smiling when it gets caught in Erica's mess for hair, “I don't see how that has anything to do with your mental state.”

Erica digs for the food, looking over at Allison with a grin, “See? What'd I say? Washington knows everything. I think she's tapped into the main office somehow.” She finally finds the piece of corn and scowls at it, fingers twitching like she's considering throwing it back at Hale. She eventually decides to just put it down next to her napkin. “It's only a matter of time before I find out all of your secrets, Allison.”

“What secrets?” Hale asks, gesturing to Allison with her spork, and Allison feels her blood run cold at that knowing glint in the girls eye, “Reyes, pay attention. Don't you watch the news?”

“It's hard to do that when you're homeless,” Erica defends, but she's squinting at Allison curiously.

Allison's quick to interrupt, not liking the wheels turning in Hale's head, “You couldn't find your mom?”

Hale snorts and takes a quick look over her shoulder. Allison follows the gaze to a table near the back where a group of women are clustered around, heads held high and eyes wide. They're all looking to a woman in the middle of the table, and Allison watches as they all soak in each of her words, practically breathing in unison with her. Allison's quick to look away, getting a cult vibe from the group that she doesn't like.

“Oh, I found them alright,” Hale says bitterly. She pushes carrots around on her tray, shrugs, “Laura says to give her some time to adjust, but it just-” Hale cuts herself off, practically biting into the skin of her cheek to keep the words from spilling out. Allison's stomach clenches at the sight.

She doesn't know anything about how 'drug lord' families operate, all her knowledge is from watching General Hospital episodes with her mom when she was ten, and she's sure that wasn't accurate at all, but Allison can't imagine being cut off from a family that close.

She looks around the cafeteria and all she can think is _thrown to the wolves_. It makes her heart ache.

Hale clears her throat, coughs, “Anyway, I'm Cora. It's hard to go by your last name when you share it with two other people in here.”

Erica scoffs, “Yeah, try telling that to me. Do you know how common of a last name Reyes is?” Erica smiles, winks at Allison, “We can't all be special like Argent over here.”

Allison nod, thankful for that at least.

Cora lets out a surprised laugh, brown eyes wide and it's only then that Allison notes the smattering of freckles across her nose. It's hard to pay attention to the light reflecting off of them when Cora's expression quickly turns horrified, though.

“Wait, you mean you don't know?” Cora asks quickly, voice thick with shock.

Allison tries to cut off a piece of her meatloaf with her spork, gives up quickly and impales another carrot.

“Know what?” She asks.

Cora looks around quickly, eying the cafeteria with a hawk like gaze, before turning back to Allison. She leans across the table, voice low as she asks, “Kate Argent? That name mean anything to you?”

Allison raises an eyebrow at the name, “My aunt? What about her? She's in Atlanta-”

Cora gently pushes Allison's face to the left where a familiar head of bouncy blonde hair is walking toward a trash can. Allison's breath catches in her throat, lungs shriveling into dust, and her entire body feels cold and clammy all over.

She wants to scream, feels it building so quickly in her throat that she almost chokes on it. No, that's not possible. Kate's supposed to be in Atlanta, Chris would have told her if she'd been transferred.

Except the woman turns around, and Allison's world is filled with shockingly blue eyes, exact, crystal identicals to her father's.

Allison's glad she at least paid somewhat attention to Kira's tour. When she gets up and immediately runs toward the exit to the cafeteria, she at least knows where she's going.

 


	2. Poker Face

The office is cold and a metal chair is hard and squeaky beneath her. Goosebumps trail up her arms, but she hardly even notices them, busy fending off the pounding in her chest and the looks her counselor is giving her. He coughs, annoyed, and obnoxiously clicks his pen. It's the exact opposite of a welcoming and open environment.

Sitting with her head in her hands, eyes clenched tight, Allison is sure she looks the very definition of pathetic.

“Are you going to say anything, or are you just going to sit there?” Harris asks finally, after ten minutes of Allison's moping.

The face Kira had made when Allison had told her who her counselor was could only be described as apologetic. Allison hadn't taken the expression to heart, and now regrets it.

A single tear runs down her face and Allison's quick to brush it away, sniffling as she hollowly lets out, “I need a transfer. I can't- I can't _stay_ here.”

“Sure,” Harris scoffs, “I'll get right on that. Hey, kid, you understand that this isn't a hotel right?”

Allison sits up in the chair, the uneven legs rocking slightly and sending her off balance. Fighting the urge to snap, she carefully says, “My aunt is here. Kate Argent? The daughter of Gerard Argent? She's going to _kill_ me.”

Harris sighs obnoxiously and roots around for a file on his desk. Allison's still and silent through his search, mind running over the many possible deaths Kate could inflict on her. She remembers when she was seven and Kate took her to the fair, remembers her aunts familiar laughter and love. The memory is old and distorted now, the warm, happy memories of her youth replaced with the cold dread running in her veins.

Allison kind of wants to throw up.

Finally, Harris pulls a green folder out from under the stack and flips it open, mumbling to himself as he reads it over. Allison can see her name in the top corner and twiddles her thumbs.

Harris hums as he turns to face her, “It seems to me like you might actually be the danger to her, grandpa killer.”

“It was an accident,” Allison snaps on reflex, her lawyers voice in her ear insistently coaching her weeks before her trial. The words sound empty even to her, and all she can think about is the feeling of Gerard's blood on her hands. She looks down at her palms only to see her pale skin and clenches her fists.

“Look,” Harris flips a page in the folder, “I don't really care if you got tried for manslaughter or not. I've got girls coming in here everyday telling me they're innocent. I don't want to hear it, especially from someone who plead guilty.”

It's like a slap to the face and Allison glares at him, “I'm not asking for a _retrial_. My aunt, who was put away for attempting to kill the family of her fifteen year old boyfriend, is in the same prison as me, and, like you _just pointed out_ , I killed her dad!”

“Hey!” Harris' palm slamming into the table edge is loud in the silence of the room, making Allison's spine snap straight, “You watch your tone with me, inmate!”

Allison sits quietly, stunned. She hadn't even been- She was just- Allison grips the end of her shirt tight in her hands, righteous fury making her skin crawl. She bites her lip to keep in the petulant reply on the tip of her tongue.

After a beat, Harris sighs and rests his forehead in his palm.

“Did she say anything to you?” He asks, “Threaten you or anything?”

Allison shakes her head minutely, still recovering from his sudden outburst of anger. Her voice cracks as she says, “No, she hasn't.”

Harris shrugs, “I'm afraid there's nothing I can do unless one of you provokes the other, and even then the most is sending one of you to solitary for a couple of days.” He sighs, as if Allison's concern for her safety is silly and unjustifiable, “Look, I can talk to the Warden, but I don't see it going anywhere.”

It's the exact opposite of what she wants to hear. Allison gulps, “But-”

“Argent,” Harris grunts out, laced with a warning, “You're going to be late for orientation.”

She takes the dismissal for what it is, despite the fiery urge to stand there and demand a transfer. It feels wrong to get up and march out the door, to not stubbornly insist on what she needs goes against everything Allison was raised to believe. Victoria taught her to be strong, to speak her mind and demand justice.

Allison looks down at her orange shirt, wonders what her mother would think about the justice being served to her now.

It was worth it though, she reminds herself. This hell, it's worth it to know that Gerard is dead. Satisfaction curls in her at that and she holds it close to her heart. She got her mother's justice, even if the police didn't.

The broken system that refused to look more into her mother's death and just ruled it as a suicide despite Victoria never having been depressed in all of Allison's life. The bottle of pills that wasn't even in Victoria's name, shoved down her throat by the very same man who smiled at her over dinner.

It was no secret to anyone the grudge Gerard held for Victoria, how he blamed her for calling the cops when she found his daughter in the guest room with a student. Years of resentment and hate and thinly veiled comments over dinner mounted and mounted until one day Allison came home to find her grandfather sitting next to her mother's lifeless body. She doesn't know how he did it, but he got away, danced out of his handcuffs with a smile and a few charismatic sentences.

Allison's knife made sure he didn't get far, though.

She's shocked out of her reverie by a harsh grip on her shoulder. Allison practically jumps out of her skin, only to see Erica and Cora trading mildly concerned glances.

“How'd it go?” Erica asks quickly, dropping her hand from Allison's shoulder and letting it fall awkwardly between them.

Allison eyes the empty space, only just noticing how much she misses her father hugging her. It hasn't even been a day, she reminds herself sadly.

She shakes herself and spits, “He wouldn't let me transfer.” Allison clears her throat, praying it doesn't crack, “Says Kate and I would have to hurt each other to even get one of us sent to solitary for a week at most.”

Cora scoffs, “Seriously? Jesus, it's like they don't care if we get killed in here.”

Allison's inclined to agree with her.

“You ran out of there like you saw a ghost,” Cora comments, “Erica and I had to flirt with a guard to make sure he didn't chase after you to give you a shot.”

“He was pretty cute,” Erica shrugs, “So it's not like it was a chore.”

Cora gives her a quick, hard look, “You be careful. Don't let your girls hear you talking like that.”

Allison raises an eyebrow as Erica scoffs, “Chill, Hale, like they want anything to do with me. Half of them think I'm too blanca to be Latina.” She hurries on, “He's a guard anyway. I can look all I want.”

“Which guard?” Allison asks, trying to remember who she ran past.

“Boyd,” Erica shrugs, and Cora rolls her eyes behind her, “Tall guy? Muscles bigger than my skull? Dreamy eyes?”

“Yeah,” Allison says, “You don't have a crush at all.”

Erica shrugs uncaring, just as a familiar looking girl rounds the corner. She's as tall as Allison with a strong jaw and hard eyes, and it isn't until the girl makes eye contact with Cora that Allison recognizes her. Erica, seeming to have put it together as well and is quiet at her side, and they watch in rapt silence as Cora gives a wounded expression to her sister's shrinking form.

“Wow,” Cora says dryly after a beat of awkward silence, “Prison is just about the best family reunion ever.”

* * *

Orientation is a boring, two hour long hell in which Allison thinks she would rather slowly peel the flesh from her bones than sit in this hard, metal chair for another second.

The first forty five minutes is a cheesy video with elevator music and a woman with a too soothing voice prattling on about all the benefits the facility has to offer. It talks about the GED program, all the activities to do in the prisoner's free time, and job opportunities.

At that point, a CO took the time to butt in that they would get their job and bunk assignments tomorrow. Allison could barely contain her excitement at the prospect.

After the cheery video ends, a guard named McCall, but not the McCall from possessing, stands in front of the AV cart. He's cute, Allison notes objectively, with a crooked jaw and puppy eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Erica slowly gives him a once over and trades flabbergasted looks with Cora.

“Does anyone have any questions about the video?” McCall asks lightly, grinning at them like they all aren't convicted felons.

Erica, of course, raises her hand and asks if McCall has a wife.

“That's not about the video, but no, I don't.” Before Erica can get too excited, McCall grins brighter, “I am engaged to Officer Stilinski though. He works around here, I'm sure you'll meet him later. Thanks for caring about me, Reyes.”

Allison is mildly taken aback by just how sincere McCall sounds about it and wonders to herself if he's been working in the prison for long. It can;t have been a long time if he still looks so hopeful and happy. The older guards shuffle around the hallways with an air of defeat, cringing back from the hoard of girls like they're going to swallow them whole.

Erica looks as if she's torn between being upset that McCall's taken and happily picturing the possible positions McCall and his mysterious fiance could get into.

“You're hopeless,” Allison whispers to her.

Erica grins cheekily at her in response.

A girl in the front row asks if the GED program is still open and McCall is happy to tell her that it is. Allison's only half listening as she goes on about the program and restlessly crosses her legs and fidgets.

More CO's wander in, explaining different part of prison procedure as the clock ticks by. They go on about showers, about the prisoner's handbook, about their rights, and lack there of, and more. Allison tries to pay attention, but she didn't sleep well the night before and her nerves are shot from the day's events. She just wants to go back to bed and sleep.

The anxiety living under her skin gets worse when a CO who calls himself “Just Ennis is fine,” goes on and on about the truly astonishing amount of weapons one can make in prison. The number of ways a hairbrush can kill someone is creative, yet horrifying.

Allison spends the entire presentation white knuckling the seat of her chair, determinedly not thinking about Kate using any of these weapons her.

“Anyway,” Just Ennis says in conclusion, “Anytime one of you ladies makes something like these,” he holds up a shiv made out of a tooth brush and ambition, “The CO's have to sit through a really boring presentation about inmate safety and have to do a shot quota for three weeks, so please don't try to kill anyone while you're in here, okay?”

No one has questions at the end of it, and Just Ennis leaves with everyone looking a bit green and a whole lot scared. Allison thinks she sees him smile sadistically on his way out.

After the orientation, Allison, Cora, and a few of the other girls that came in with them earlier this morning are lead to a back office by McCall to get their ID's made. Erica is lead out the door with the rest of the girls, presumably to watch TV or continue to shamelessly flirt with guards.

On the walk there, Cora sticks close to her side, sending shifty looks to anyone who gets too close, and Allison pretends to ignore the bubble of warmth that grows inside of her at it.

After McCall leads them to a single file line in front of the camera, he leaves them with Ennis to go and sit on the edge of another guy's desk. He's pale with dark moles, and Allison and Cora watch as McCall plants a casual kiss on the other guy's cheek before giving him a high five.

“Guys are so weird,” Cora remarks, and Allison just nods in agreement.

Allison's picture is horrible. The flash is too bright and the wall behind her washes out her skin. She looks like a wide eyed meth addict who hasn't slept in a week. Her only solace is that Cora's looks just as terrible, if not more so, and they both complain about them within ear shot of Ennis as they stick them on their shirts.

“Seriously? You're in prison and you're whining about your picture?” Ennis looks over to McCall and Stilinksi, “Is this high school? Did I show up to the wrong place for work today?”

“It's not their fault you're a shit photographer,” Stilinski snorts.

He and McCall are now holding their previously high fived hands. Cora and Allison trade a look.

McCall gives them an apologetic look over his shoulder and tells their group, “Since none of you have work assignments, you can spend the rest of the day with free time.”

Allison takes the dismissal and heads back to the holding bunk, hoping to get in a nap before Kate jumps out of the shadows and kills her with any of the objects Ennis laid out before her. She's a hundred percent sure she's going to have a nightmare, but since her entire life is a nightmare, she can't find it in herself to care all that much.

Watkins is snoring loudly when Allison enters the room and Padilla and three of the other women are missing, so Allison doesn't have to make small talk with anyone. She unfolds her extra blanket and falls asleep instantly.

It starts off the same as it has for the past two months.

She's kneeling on the a plush white carpet, watching as it slowly turns red from the blood pooling out of the body to her right. Her hands are covered in it, and slow rivets roll down her arms and drip from her elbows.

There's blood on her dress. She thinks distantly of how she'll have a hard time getting that out.

Her entire body feels numb, like when she sits too still and her foot falls asleep. She's afraid to move, afraid of the pins and needles that will come when she reawakens, where everything will hurt and be horrible.

Here, in this moment, with red stained palms and a corpse next to her, Allison feels more calm than she has in months.

She doesn't hear the door slam open or the foot falls on the stairs, but suddenly her father is in front of her, grabbing her hands and his panicked voice is in her ears, demanding what she's done.

Allison's mouth opens to answer him, to tell him that she avenged her mother, that she did it, but then she sees it.

“There's something around your neck,” she says, and her voice is thick like cotton and childlike.

Chris stops in his horrified outburst to look down, and when he does Allison sees her.

“You killed my dad,” Kate says, tightening the noose around her father's neck. Allison screams, but Kate's voice is like an alarm in her ear, “Now I'm going to kill yours.”

Allison opens her eyes to see Cora's face twisted in a frown, wet hair slung up in a bun to stop from dripping all over her orange shirt.

Allison's breathing heavily but she tries to hold it in, keep the panic swelling in her at bay. Her skin feels itchy and tingles all over and she feels like she's going to barf.

“You okay?” Cora asks her, voice gruff like she isn't used to being concerned about people.

“Sure,” Allison says easily, even though her chest is heaving and she swallows back the vomit sliding up her throat.

Cora doesn't press the issue, which Allison is seriously thankful for.

“The water pressure in this place is shit,” Cora complains, “The juvie I went to in Ventura was way better than this place. They had these little travel sized shampoo bottles.”

Allison scoots over and pats the space beside her, and Cora takes the invitation. The bed squeaks in its metal frame as she sits but Watkins doesn't even stir.

“You've been to juvie?” She asks when they've settled down.

“Of course, what self respecting Hale would I be if I hadn't?”

Allison shrugs at that. She doesn't know much about the Hale's and Cora hasn't been very inclined to give up much in their day here. All she knows is that her mom is apparently really mad at her for getting in here, and she can't imagine she was much happier with Cora in a juvenile correctional facility.

Cora leans over and snags a hairbrush off of the counter, even though it belongs to neither of them. Allison is sure that Padilla isn't afraid to make a double edged hairbrush knife, Ennis' presentation will haunt her for weeks, but Cora doesn't seem as concerned as she is.

“So,” Cora stars as she undoes her bun, “I was talking to Laura-”

“Who?”

Cora gives her an annoyed look, “My sister, dumb ass. Shit, Argent, keep track of prison drama that isn't your own.”

Allison doesn't know how it's her fault for not knowing the name of the sister Cora hasn't said two words to her about, but Allison apologizes anyway. “Hey, I thought your family was ignoring you?”

Cora shrugs and says, “Laura found me in the showers and- look, it's really complicated. And, hey, if my mom finds out that Laura isn't pretending that I don't exist then I'm going to have to stage an accident in which you break several bones, capiche?”

She says it so casually that it makes Allison smile, especially when she remembers how Cora looked out for her earlier and asked if she was okay after her nap. She remembers the regal woman at that lunch table earlier today and tells her, “You look like your mom when you threaten people.”

Cora smiles big at that, as if Allison has just paid her the highest compliment. “Thanks, Argent. Anyway, so we got to talking and Laura told me that this girl, Lydia, she can make practically anything happen in here. Laura says she has a cellphone, for fucks sake, _and_ she has an in with the Warden Assistant, Blake? So if you kiss her ass hard enough, maybe she'll be able to get your aunt transferred.”

Allison is too stunned with the amount of hope swelling in her chest to say much other, “I think I want to marry you.”

“I appreciate that, Argent, but the idea of romance disgusts me. Come on, let's track down Martin.”

* * *

They find her in the rec room, sitting at a table with a large woman.

Lydia, as it turns out, is not the gun toting, gravely voice, 'I'll-cut-your-face-off-if-you-look-at-me' girl that Allison had been lead to believe during her and Cora's search.

She's actually tiny and delicate looking, with soft features and wide eyes. Her lips are full and pouty, stained with red lipstick that Allison is sure is contraband. A long, ornate braid wraps her fiery red hair like a crown across her head, and Allison is sure she carries the grace it represents.

Her grin is wide and wicked as she lightly places a hand of cards on the table, eyes sympathetic as she congratulates her opponent on such a good game. The other player glares at her and tosses something down on the table between them, which Lydia is quick to hide between her waist band.

She looks positively dangerous, in an innocent sort of way. There's a flush of excitement to her cheeks and Allison hates herself for admiring it.

Cora nudges her forward and says, “I'm gonna go find Reyes. Make sure she isn't shacking up with some guard. You be safe, okay?”

Lydia's smile is still stuck on as Allison slides into the seat across from her, her only facial tick is the slight wrinkling of her nose at Allison's orange suit.

“Can I help you?” She asks, voice falsely sweet and it makes the hair on the back of Allison's neck stand on end.

Allison wills her voice not to shake, “From what I hear, you can.”

Lydia actually smiles this time, with her teeth, and Allison very carefully does not compare her to a wolf eying a snack.

“You must have friends in high places to know that on your first day,” Lydia comments dryly. She shuffles the deck of cards in her hands idly as she sizes Allison up. She must find what she's looking for because she quickly says, “I require my payment upfront. ”

Allison blinks at that. When her silence stretches on too long, Lydia begins dealing cards. She watches her, flipping cards like it's second nature, until Allison realizes Lydia's setting her up to play poker.

Lydia flips the final card and says, “Talk and play. If you win, I'll do what you need for free.”

Allison knows enough about prison, and life in general, to know that what Lydia is saying is huge. She eagerly picks up her cards and ignores the bitter memory of playing with her family on Saturday nights when she was younger. They haven't played since she was fourteen, and Allison isn't confident in her skills.

When Kate's trial started, the tradition kind of fell apart.

She quickly sizes up her cards, looking between them and Lydia's expression quickly. She checks for everything her father taught her to, shallow breathing, eye contact, facial ticks, but Lydia's face is practically made out of marble and she smiles at Allison with that same, calm grin.

Lydia slides a packet of Oreos across the table and says, “You can eat them, but they're your chips so I would suggest you don't.”

Allison, not knowing what to say in the face of such ingenuity, unwraps the packet and quickly lines them up.

“The ante is two Oreos.” Lydia says over the rim of her cards, “Start talking. This is going to be a short hand.”

Allison tries not to scoff at the confidence Lydia is displaying and slides two Oreos to the center of the table.

“My aunt's in here. Kate Argent?”

Lydia hums distractedly and slides two more Oreos next to hers, “Yes family support is great. What of her?”

Lydia burns a card and quickly throws down three more.

Allison bites the inside of her cheek and rushes out, “I need her gone.” Lydia pauses at this, stilling in her slide of three more Oreos forward, and peaks up at Allison from under her eyelashes. “I don't know if you've heard, but I got convicted on manslaughter of her dad.”

Allison ignores the smirk that plays at Lydia's mouth at her careful wording and adds, “Hale says you have connections with the Warden's Assistant.”

Lydia looks away and hums, “Someone who has a connection with the Warden's Assistant owes me a favor. There's a difference. The question here,” Lydia burns another card and pushes more Oreos into the bot, “Is if I'm willing to use that favor on you.”

Allison doesn't know what to say to that, can't think of any way to plead her case that Lydia will feel sympathetic to, so she does the only thing she can do and continues playing.

She meets each bet that Lydia makes and pretends there isn't sweat sliding between her shoulder blades. It's stiff and quiet, the rest of the block moving along in a muffled roar. The world is silent and there is only Lydia and this game of cards. She plays viciously, upping the ante with a wild desperation she's never felt before. Lydia seems to sense how badly Allison needs this and plays just as hard, smile still firmly in place.

Lydia goes all in on the final hand and Allison bites her lip before doing the same. She needs Kate out, can't risk dying in prison and leaving her father anymore alone than he is.

“Three of a kind,” Allison says, head feeling light with a pleasant buzz as she places down her hand.

Lydia's face slips for a minute, almost looking proud at Allison. “You're pretty good, Argent,” she says, and Allison's heart stops as Lydia shows her hand.

A straight flush. Her mouth drops open at the neat line of cards. Who gets a straight flush that quickly? Who has that kind of luck? Allison's eyes widen and she looks between the cards and Lydia's face, crinkled, filled with fake sadness.

Then, she grins, “But I'm better.”

“I,” her mind is blank, “ _How?_ ”

Lydia hums and Allison watches numbly as she cleans up the table, shuffling the cards neatly into a deck and taking the last of Allison's hope with them.

“I've been in here nine months. It's a lot of time to practice.” She says with a shrug. Lydia pauses and looks over her shoulder, throwing a look to the wide radius people keep around her table. When she turns back, her face is relaxed. She leans forward and winks, “Plus, I count cards.”

“That's cheating,” Allison says without permission, thankful her tone isn't a petulant whine.

Lydia shrugs, “I'm aware, but I couldn't just let the new girl beat me at my game, could I?” She smiles at her and admits, “In here your reputation is everything. If it makes you feel better, you're the first person in a long while I had to use that trick with.”

Allison's stomach is lined with vicious butterflies that want nothing more than to tear her guts apart, anxiety like acid as it pumps through her veins. Her voice is bitter as she grits out, “Yeah, lots better.”

Lydia laughs at her tone, “Look, I like you, Allison. I don't want to hear that you got shanked in the shower by your insane auntie,” Allison shudders lightly at the mental image, “But I'm also not in the business of handing out favors for free. What's this worth to you?”

The answer comes out before she can think about it, quick and desperate, “Anything.”

Lydia raises an amused eyebrow at her and whistles, “Anything, huh? First rule of dealing, sweetie, don't let the other person make the stakes. What if I asked you to start a fight, hmm? What if I asked you to kill someone, huh?” Allison looks away at that, staring at the table edge, “That's what I thought. Come on, I'll let you try again.”

“I don't have _anything_ ,” Allison says bitterly.

“Everyone has something, Argent, even in here.” Lydia shuffles the cards between her nimble fingers, “Think harder.”

Allison bites her lip, suggesting softly, “I have commissary.”

Lydia's hands still and she grins at her, “See? That's a good start, but not for this type of deal. Come on, I know there's a brain in there.”

Desperation claws at Allison's throat and tears form in her eyes. It's like Lydia's just jerking her around at this point, and Allison snaps at her, “I don't know, okay? I can't think of anything.”

“There's not a cunning bone in your body is there, Argent?” Lydia asks softly, as if she's speaking to a child, and shrugs, “Fine. I'll do it, but you have to take a note to the kitchens for me- _and_ you owe me a favor.”

Allison's not sure if she likes the sound of that favor, not when she knows Lydia will be cashing in one to get someone else transferred.

What if Allison can't fulfill her favor? Lydia doesn't seem like the type of person you get away with crossing, but every time she sees a head of blonde hair she wants to jump out of her skin, and Allison finds it harder to say no by the second.

“A note?” She clarifies.

“Yes,” Lydia nods, “Just a note. I promise.”

Allison bites her lip, “Will I get in trouble for it?”

Allison doesn't know if she's asking about the note or the favor, but Lydia smiles, “Allison, when you hang out with me, there's very little you can get in trouble for.”

It's easy to agree when Lydia's eyes soften and her grin is so confident and collected. When Lydia slides a piece of paper into her palm, Allison takes it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't actually know how to play poker, but thanks to my friend mooitstimdrake who gave me enough information to hopefully make that somewhat passable.
> 
> [can you guess everyone's backgrounds?](http://the-candy-van.tumblr.com/post/90173097321/behind-bars-prison-might-actually-be-easier-if) 


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